


The Long Night

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-07 16:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4270887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Northerners were always thought to be strange folk. From the ways of their Old Gods to their reluctance to assimilate into the new world and with Winterfell as the center of the North, the Starks were a stern reflection of the Northern people. </p><p>As a true Southron woman Catelyn Stark had always held a certain feeling towards the Northerners. It was never one she could place, far less than love but far more than disdain and it was not until her first meeting with her betrothed did she truly understand it. It was misunderstanding. </p><p>She had heard the whispers of the true Northern folk. What they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I had initially envisioned this as a single chapter story but I just kept writing until I looked down and there was eleven pages! I see no more than five or six chapters so it won't be very long but not short either. Hope you liked it!
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This fic has been renumbered so please don't get confused by it I just changed "Part One" to "Prologue" but the story remains compeltely unchanged.

Prologue

The Northerners were always thought to be strange folk. From the ways of their Old Gods to their reluctance to assimilate into the new world and with Winterfell as the center of the North, the Starks were a stern reflection of the Northern people.

As a true Southron woman Catelyn Stark had always held a certain feeling towards the Northerners. It was never one she could place, far less than love but far more than disdain and it was not until her first meeting with her betrothed did she truly understand it. It was misunderstanding.

Lord Eddard Stark was different than any man she had ever set her gaze upon. From the very first time she had ever looked upon him she had found him handsome enough to make her heart race at the base of her throat. He was a sterner man than his brother but that was only part of his allure.

His hair was dark and unruly and his eyes were so light a gray they were nearly blue, so sharp that each time he looked upon Catelyn she could feel a blush spread across her cheeks. His skin was pale as fresh cream, free of blemishes and marks, only a few silvery scars to mark his place as a warrior.

She had heard the whispers of the true Northern folk. What they were.

Eddard Stark had come to her one day as she sat within her chamber, needle and thread poking softly through a piece of cloth. “Cat,” he whispered, offering his callused hand. He staggered forward and fell to his knees at her side. “I must show you something.”

“Ned!” she cried. His face was white as the sheet she embroidered and she jumped to her feet, her mother’s stomach making her sway dangerously. “Dearest, what has become of you?”

“I-“ he began, falling backwards. He tried to grab hold of the arm of her chair but ended up taking the whole thing down with him. “I need-“

“What is it?” she asked. “I will get-“

He looked up at her. His eyes were dark and fierce and shadowed. “Blood.”

The word sent chills down her spine. If he were any other man she would think it was a jest but she knew her husband. She knew his face and his voice and she knew he told only truth.

“Tell me what you need of me.” said Catelyn firmly. It was an effort to keep the nervousness from her voice.

He reached for her and she moved into his arms, his callused palm landing upon her belly. She reeled back in horror, reaching for the knife she kept tucked at her thigh. But he made no motion to come near her. “I am sorry to ask this of you. My wife. Mother of…”

She grasped his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. His face was gaunt and pale and hooded with shadows. “Do what you must and I’ll hear nothing else about it.”

 Eddard took hold of her wrist, his eyes looking up at her. She nodded firmly in reassurance, her eyes squeezing closed as his teeth sunk into her flesh.

It did not hurt but Catelyn gasped nonetheless. When he withdrew his fangs were sharp and pointed, stained with her life’s blood. She had long ago heard the whispers of Northern men who drank the blood of their enemies or ran with wolves when the moon was high. She had never taken any truth to it. But now…

“How long has it been since…” she trailed off.

Eddard Stark of Winterfell wiped the blood from his mouth. “Four months.”

Her eyes widened. She had noticed that he had begun to look ill but she thought perhaps it was only old age. “You will take my blood.” Said she. “Anytime you have use for it.” he opened his mouth to protest. “I will hear nothing else of it.”

Perhaps the only thing she had ever kept from her husband was her shame of his need. For that she blamed her Southron mother, who had filled her mind with images of degradation and shame at the prospect of drinking blood.

And yet when her first son was born with the same predilection as his father she loved him all the same, holding him close to her as a reminder of her husband, long away at Robert Baratheon’s war. _He looks like me_ , she thought fondly, dragging her finger across his small mouth. Robb’s hair was copper and soft and his eyes held the same Tully blue as his mother’s. _But he is so much his father_.

On a day so much like any other, with Robb Stark naught more than a babe at his mother’s breast, and the castle bustling with activity the Lord of Winterfell had returned with another woman’s child in his arms. Another woman’s blood consuming child.

“He is the son of Lyanna.” Said Eddard. His honor was great; especially when it came to the sister he had lost. “He is one of us. He is of our blood.”

And Catelyn had hated him for it. But her shame was shameful in itself. How could she hate another woman’s child? A child she nurtured with her own breast and blood, just as she had her own son. But the son of the Mad King’s son was no son of hers.

Catelyn loved her children. Each of her children, whether they desired blood or not. When Jon and Robb were old enough to stand on the tips of their toes and peek over the top of the bassinet Sansa Stark was born. She was a squalling babe with copper hair, after Catelyn herself, and the Lady of Winterfell found she was relieved to find the babe did not require her blood. Soon after came Arya, her hair dark as her father’s but her need for blood the same as her mother’s.

As the years passed Robb and Jon grew only closer, learning to fight and ride and hawk and play at each other’s sides. They were thick as thieves, as Eddard often said. Perhaps the only problem was that they could not feed from each other. No, Catelyn thought bitterly. It was from her that they drew their nourishment and with the bastard at her arm Catelyn only hated him more. And hated herself more for hating a boy no older than ten winters.

Sansa Stark had always known she would soon provide the blood of her body and soul to provide for her brother. She had grown in the shadow of her mother, watching the Lady of Winterfell offer her arm or wrist to the son’s she raised, both true born and not.

But she had not been ready for it quite so soon.

Sansa Stark had heard a splintering shriek from the thick of the forest. She had been returning from her riding lesson with the horse master when she had heard it, her long legs carrying her faster than Arya, who had been at the other end of the yard.

Jon Snow lay in a pile of blood spattered snow, the tunic of his collar stuffed between his teeth to keep from screaming. His leg was bent and bloodies, the white of bone shining through. When she came into sight his eyes widened, quickly explaining that his mare had startled and thrown him from the saddle.

“I’ve called for help.” Sansa assured him, kneeling at his side. He was too heavy for her to lift him and too far into the forest for her to scream for more help.

Jon was pale as unblemished parchment and the shadows beneath his eyes only grew as the seconds passed. When her father had returned from Robert’s Rebellion with his leg wrapped in a cast, the skin severed and the bone fractured in three places it had been only her mother’s blood that healed him.

“Let me help.” She said, brushing back his dark hair.

“No.” he said firmly, jerking from her and gritting his teeth in pain.

Sansa sighed, pulling herself closer to him as she had seen her mother and father do, wrapping her arms around his shoulders so he was able to lean upon her. “You are hurt. Please, Jon. I want to help you.”

“I can’t…” he whispered. “You-“

“You will die, Jon.” She protested, prodding his wound. Only when she had peeled back his tunic did she see the knife he had carried with him had lodged itself in his side, the blood sticky and thick as it dripped down his skin.

“Please.” She pulled back her sleeve and thrust her wrist beneath his nose, his eyes never leaving hers. He could see the tears that shone in her eyes like diamonds. “Please, Jon.”

He took her hand lightly, squeezing her palm in a weak effort to sooth her. His fangs were sharp as anything she had ever felt, piercing skin and muscle and nerve in one smooth motion. She gasped and felt her knees grow weaker just as Jon’s grew stronger. Soon it was her turn to sink into his arms.

He held her tightly as he drank, Sansa weakly watching the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She could almost smile. She who looked so like her mother and he who looked so like her father. But she felt too sleepy to smile.

Sansa felt a blush spread across her cheeks. She had never been so close to a man before. And never Jon. They had always been perfectly pleasant and had even played together as children but…

His chest was muscled and his arms strong, holding tightly to her as he dethatched from her wrist, wiping the blood with his tongue before he could bandage the wound with a strip of cloth from his shorn tunic. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, lifting her into his arms sweepingly. He wrapped his fur cloak over her frail, shaking body until it encompassed both of them. “I’ve taken too much. I never should have-“

“No.” she said firmly. Her head rested softly against his shoulder, feeling the muscle and sinew beneath. She looked down at his leg, finding the skin had mended as if by magic and he had pulled the knife from his side and she held the bloody blade in her lap. “I would not have sat idly by while you died. Remember when I cut my finger in the kitchens…” She gave a small smile as she lifted her ring finger to show him the silvery scar that marred her skin. “You helped me…”

He remembered it clearly, smiling but his smile faltered when Eddard and Catelyn rushed through the brush, taking in the sight before them. “What have you done?” Catelyn demanded, looking at the bloody blade. “Sansa, what has happened?”

But the girl was too weak to speak. Eddard and Jon knew that feeding always required the person to have nourishment soon after and he was not sure if Sansa had had a single thing to eat. _She never eats before riding_ , Jon thought, remembering. _She hates to have an upset stomach._

 Jon knew that wine worked the best, good apple wine or sweet Dornish red. But he doubted Catelyn would allow Sansa to have wine before her wedding day.

After he had explained himself Eddard had given a firm nod, placing a kiss upon both Jon’s and Sansa’s brows and allowing Jon to continue back to the castle with Sansa cradled in his arms. As he walked away he could feel Lady Stark’s burning gaze on his back but he only kept forward.

 Through the castle and up the stairs, avoiding the curious or angry glances of the servants Jon placed the sleeping girl in her bed and pulled up the furs around her. on his way to the room he had seen Robb, the eldest Stark seeming to know everything that had happened. The copper haired boy had slipped Jon a flask and now, when he uncurled the top of the skin, he smelled the sweet scent of wine, remembering the night he and Robb had shared the drink and fallen asleep in the stables.

Jon left the wineskin upon her pillow. Her skin was a bit paler than usual but he knew it was only because of her first feeding. She was as beautiful asleep as she was awake, he thought. Suddenly feeling embarrassed at the thought he left the chamber, pressing the door softly closed behind him.

In one moment their bond was sealed. Jon knew that Robb could no longer feed from Sansa. At least not so soon. At least not while she was so young.

He knew that Catelyn had planned it so that Sansa and Robb would be paired and he would be paired with Arya. He had always assumed that the first person he would taste after his maturation would be Arya

“I don’t understand.” Jon overheard Catelyn speaking in the Lord’s chambers. “Why can he not feed from Arya as we had planned?”

Eddard sighed. “It is done, Cat. A vampire can be fed by more than one human but more than one vampire feeding from one human…it is incredibly dangerous. Especially for one to young as Sansa or Arya. I know how you feel about Jon but…”

For once Catelyn did not speak to dissuade him of her disdain for the boy and it made Jon’s hands ball into fists. Tears sprung to his bastard eyes and he wiped them away with bastard hands. That’s all he was, was it not? A bastard. And why should Lady Stark care anything about another Northern bastard.


	2. Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa share a bond. Catelyn Stark begins to take notice.

Part One

The first official time Jon fed from Sansa she was nervous enough for them both. Looking around her chambers she found herself wondering what Jon would think. Her walls were light orange and hanging with a chain of golden beads. Her bed was feather stuffed and made with the same brown furs she knew he had laid her under.

She could not place what she was feeling. Not until the door slid open and Jon entered in a swoop of black. Sansa sat up on the bed, looking expectantly at him. The wound on her wrist had healed inordinately quick, the dotted bites closing within three days. As it healed she found herself looking at the bluish veins that moved and wriggled beneath her pale skin. She wondered how they called to Jon. Did they even? She had seen a glimmer of something she could not place in his eyes.

Jon stood in the doorway and suddenly Sansa felt foolish. Should she have set up chairs? Would he be unwilling to sit on her bed?

“S-sorry.” She said.

He raised a dark brow and moved to sit beside her on the bed. “Sorry?”

She didn’t know what else to say. “I just…I don’t really know what to do.”

“Do?” he repeated. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Sansa rolled up her sleeve, leaning back upon the pillows. Last time she had grown instantly tired and she did not want to fall off the bed. That would be terribly embarrassing. “I…” she began. “Once I heard the stable master telling a maiden that…”

“That what?” he asked. His burnishing gaze was upon her and she could feel her blush rising and spreading.

She took a breath, trying to keep her voice even. “He said that feeding could be…pleasurable. Not…not just for the one feeding. For b-both.”

His eyes widened in surprise and to her relief a blush formed on his cheeks as well. “I never…I mean I have only fed from Lady Catelyn and yourself. With the Lady it was never…I mean it wasn’t…I didn’t…”

“I know.” Sansa said, looking at him. On impulse she reached out to stroke his hand, her thumb touching his for just a moment. “I am shamed by her.”

He jerked away suddenly, standing. “What?” he demanded.

Sansa stood too. “I didn’t mean to offend you!” she said quickly. “I’m sorry if I did. I only meant that I am shamed by how she…by how she treats you. You are my friend.” She said the last bit quietly and her blush darkened so deeply that her face seemed to match her hair.

Jon smiled and took her hand, squeezing it softly. “As you are mine.”

When he fed again Sansa lay back on the bed and he lay beside her, awkwardly at first before relaxing. He had never lain upon a woman’s bed before. It was not very different from his own but at the same time it was. He could smell her perfume on the pillow. He could feel the indent her body had left upon the mattress, far smaller then his own. It made him coil with nervousness at the thought that he laid where Sansa had spent so many nights.

        Her blood was honey sweet and almost creamy, as pretty as the rest of her. Though he supposed it was only pretty to him for when she saw it she looked on the verge of becoming ill. When he had finished he took the small bandage kit he kept and tended to her wound, staunching the flow of blood and bandaging it easily.

Sansa blinked groggily but when Jon stood up she propped herself up on her elbow. “Will you stay?” she asked, her voice sleepy.

“You need to rest.” He said but sat down nonetheless.

“Do you believe the rumors?” she asked. It was a clear struggle to keep her eyes open.

“What rumors?” he asked, though he already knew.

“That you…are…Rhaegar Targaryen’s…son…” her eyes drooped closed now.

He smiled weakly. “Either way I’m still a bastard.”

“No. You-” Sansa smiled lazily, trailing off just before she could finish. Jon smiled again, closing the door behind him upon the sleeping girl.

The feedings were never pleasurable exactly but they were not painful either. And even the pain was lessened by the conversations they shared. At first Catelyn checked upon them each time they fed, bursting through the door at surprising times. Sansa assumed it was in hopes to catch them unawares. She wondered what her mother thought they were doing. The thought that her mother and father having pleasurable feedings made her feel quite nauseous, so she did not ask nor did she think about it.

She wondered if Jon had lain with a woman before. Thought Robb often boasted of being at ease among the ladies Sansa knew her brother could barely say more than three words before the lady servants before turning a shade of red so deep it made his hair pale in comparison.

And Jon. She was not sure. He had never mentioned another woman but she doubted he would discuss it with her. But she had never seen him with anyone.

“What are those?” Jon asked as he entered her chambers. He gestured to a stack of books that stood off her shelf, near the bed.

“Oh.” She looked startled. “I meant to put them away. Fell asleep reading them last night.”

He looked at the books, tracing the titles with the tip of his finger. “I never knew we had these.”

She offered her arm. Her wrist had already begun to show a build up of scar tissue but it was not unappealing. Then again nothing on her was. “Maester Aemon gave them to me. Once in a while I read them to Arya. Her favorite is the story of Nymeria and her ten thousand ships.”

“I like that one too.” He looked at her, her wrist daintily held in his hand. “They say she and Mors Martell were best friends. And lovers.”

“It must be nice.” She said. “Nobody will marry me for love. Only titles. Father said that King Robert wishes his son to marry me.”

Jon frowned. “I would not like that.”

Sansa looked up at him, her blue eyes wide as crystals. “Why?”

“Joffrey is a wee shit.” Said Jon with a laugh. Sansa schooled her face into neutrality. “And I wish that you would marry for love. You would not love Joffrey.”

“No.” she said. “I love someone else.”

He did not realize they were standing so close until now. “Do you?” his hand seemed to have a mind of its own, reaching out to brush her hip. He could feel the soft swell of her hip beneath his palm, the sharp bone seeming to fit perfectly into the cup of his hand.

“Don’t you know?” she whispered.

“I know exactly.”

He closed the space between them in a moment. Her lips were sweet and soft as he had always imagined them to be and her hair was soft as silk, the soft curls sweeping through his fingers. “I never-“ she started. Her hand pulled at his neck, pulling him closer. “I never knew that you…”

“I was afraid.” He whispered. Her hair smelled of roses and lavender, so fluid and smooth it felt like water. “Afraid you wouldn’t-“

“I know.” She embraced him tightly. His body was all hard planes and smooth angles and beneath her fingers she could feel the wave of muscle of his shoulders, as his embrace grew tighter. “I know.”

Her face nestled into the crook of his neck, feeling the roughness of his half grown beard against her skin. “I love you.” He whispered, cradling her head.

“Jon.” She whispered. “I love you.”

He could feel her heart at is beat through her chest, which was pressed against his. Her mouth was like nothing he had ever felt. Surely she had never kissed another man? But the way she moved against him was knowledgeable. Pleasurable.

Sansa’s head jerked upward. “Someone is coming.”

She moved easily back to the bed, picking up a book and turning to whatever page her finger found. Jon sat back on a chair near the window, hoping his face was not as red as he thought it was.

Eddard ducked through the door. “Sorry my dears. Just making sure you are alright.”

“We’re fine father.” Sansa replied coolly. She even managed a sweet smile. But when she turned back to Jon the look in her eyes was nothing near sweet. He could feel the blush rising again.

“Robert Baratheon has called me back to the capital.” He said. Sansa’s face fell and the opened her mouth to speak but he raised a hand to stop her. “You and your sister will come along.”

“Father, no!” Sansa cried. “I cannot.”

Ned looked between the two, perhaps for the first time noticing the looks upon their faces, the blushes, the messed hair. “I am sorry.” Said Ned. “Your mother will join us later. Robb will be Lord of Winterfell in my absence. Jon I hope you will stay at his side.”

Another few moments of idle chat passed between them before Eddard excused himself, ducking back through the door and disappearing down the corridor. Sansa’s eyes had filled with tears and as she turned back to Jon he took her into his arms, her fists banging upon his broad chest.

“I won’t leave you.” She whispered, her voice muffled by his surcoat. “You need me and I need you.”

“Shh…” he soothed. She looked up at him, her chin pressed to his chest. “I am yours and you are mine. From this day until the end of my days. Distance will not change that.”

He took her slim wrist, pressing a soft kiss to her palm before his fangs broke the skin. His eyes pressed closed in bliss and as she felt his tongue brush against her wrist she let out a small gasp. She felt him drawing away but pushed his head back. “I’m alright I just-“

Suddenly she was four and ten, watching as Jon and Robb played knights in the yard. But she could see herself, small and copper haired and watching them with eyes round and large as saucers. She could feel Jon’s movements, the wooden practice sword in his hand heavy enough to make his arm ache. She could feel the heave of his chest and the rush of breath coming into his lungs.

Jon sat motionless, remembering. He was six and ten and bathing. Sansa had entered the room without knocking, stumbling in upon him in the bath. She had gasped, clasped her hands over her eyes. She was peaking. They both knew it.

Sansa was kneeling at Jon’s side in the forest. His leg hurt more than anything he had ever felt. He could see the bone of his leg. He wondered if he would ever walk again. She was looking at him. He could read her face. She was scared and worried and her blood tasted better than any he had ever tasted.

Jon fell off the bed, landing hard upon the leg of the chair he had pulled away when Ned left. His lips were bloody but he wiped them away with his sleeve. Sansa lay on her back in the bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He rushed to her side, tried to rouse her but before he could even open his mouth she was awake, looking at him.

“What-“ they said in unison.

“I don’t understand.” She said. Her chest was heaving, breathlessly. “Those visions. Those…”

“Memories.” He said. “It’s happened once with Catelyn.”

He had seen the moment when Lord Stark had returned from the war, in his arms carrying a child. At the time Jon had known it was him and he had seen first hand the look on Catelyn’s face. He had pulled away before he could see anymore.

“Lord Stark said it could happen sometimes. The blood carried memories or emotions with them. Transferring the blood to another transfers the memories too.”

 He trailed off. Sansa’s face was pale as the sheet she lay upon. She looked up at him through her blue eyes, as soft and light as breaking waves. She was weak, he knew. Perhaps he had taken too much? It was a thought he would never stop thinking. “I am well.” She whispered. His fingers brushed the hair from her face and stopped to graze her cheek. “Do not fret.”

“I will never stop fretting.” Said he. He had seen the dirty looks Catelyn had given him whenever Sansa was too tired from a night of feeding to rise to break her fast. “You are weak.”

“And you are bothersome.” She teased softly.

He had a thought. One he had thought on more than one occasion. It made his stomach flutter with excitement. Before he could tell himself otherwise he bit his wrist, his blood springing to the surface instantly. He hand out his arm to her and she lifted her eyes to him again and for a moment he thought she might protest. He had seen her before, fierce and stubborn in her arguments with Arya and with her mother.

But she did not. She took his arm and lowered it to her lips, the smudge of red bright against her skin. The moment her lips touched his skin he felt pleasure explode within him a gasp escaping his lips before he could stop it. “I’m sorry I-“

Her tongue darted out to take in the drop of blood that had escaped her lips and he gasped again. _Jon_ , she whispered. But no her lips had not moved he was sure of it. _Do not fear_.

He started suddenly. _How do you speak to me?_

 _The blood_ , whispered Sansa. _It speaks_. _The stable master. He said it could happen when vampire and prey are bonded._

For several days they shared blood. Only small amounts just to experiment with the thoughts and pleasures they had experienced. Thoughts could be passed easily from one to the other only when blood had been shared, but whether it was Jon who fed or Sansa it did not matter.

“Will you come to King’s Landing?” Sansa asked. They lay together upon the bed, his arms encompassing her. She had pulled the furs over them both, her body shivering and cold from the northern winter.

“If I could.” He replied. “I would follow you to the ends of the kingdoms if I could.”

She smiled, her brow nuzzling against his chest. She pressed a kiss to the bare flesh that showed between the laces of his collar. “Always?” she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I hope you liked it :)


	3. Part Two

Part Two

Lord Eddard Stark rode from Winterfell without turning his back. Arya cried for the majority of the way, sniffling softly to herself and refusing to accept the handkerchief Sansa offered but she did not move away from her sister.

Thought Sansa did not shed a tear she felt crushed with the weight of disappointment and defeat. She refused to look back. She could not. She could not look back else she would never leave.

 Their retinue departed from the northern city before the sky had even lightened. From the open gates of the castle Catelyn, Robb, and Jon had bid their family goodbye, waving and smiling and pretending they were anything but what they truly were. _Happy_. Not a single Stark or Snow was happy to depart Winterfell or arrive in King’s Landing.

Sansa’s mother had pressed a soft kiss upon her brow and offered a tight embrace, wishing her daughter luck in the city and a safe journey upon the Kingsroad. But Sansa had barely heard a word she said.

Jon Snow stood tall and fair beside Robb. They both wore the same solemn, long face that Eddard Stark himself bore and all at once the resemblance seemed uncanny. Robb had pulled her into an embrace so tight that she could feel the shift and creak of her bones and she was forced to gently remind him that her bones were no as strong as his and his embrace was killing her.

“I will visit you soon.” Robb had promised, brushing back the hair from her face.

“And I will be waiting.” Replied Sansa, pressing her near twin brother into another hug. She could feel the soft brush of his curls upon her head and the rough feel of his growing beard.

Standing beside her brother, Jon wore the tunic Sansa had mended for him after Arya had accidently pierced the sleeve with the head of an arrow. It had been a moment of pure bliss, shared by both. For just a moment they could pretend to be the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, Sansa sitting neatly with her sewing in her lap, Jon staring lovingly at her, the quill in his hand losing its way as he grew distracted from the letter he penned.

“Has no one ever mended a tunic for you?” Sansa had asked with a laugh, reading his face. She had leaned upon her elbows, lying flat on her stomach, her mouth close enough to his to smell the mint on his breath.

 Jon’s eyes shone bright and shining as the stars outside the open window and he took a moment before he answered. “Not with such great care.”

She would miss his lips, she knew. She would miss their smile and their kisses and the words they formed when he looked at her. And his eyes. They were beautiful, large and gray and soft. Even his nose. He hated it because it had been broken several times and was crooked at the top. But she loved it all the same and maybe even more, to make up for the love he did not give it.

She would miss him. All of him. every bit of skin and muscle and bone that she had spent the past fortnight memorizing. _I am yours and you are mine_ , he had whispered in her ear when he had embraced. They could not hold each other for as long as they wished for Catelyn’s scrutinizing eye was upon them _. From this day, until the end of my days._

The last night they had shared was one of silence. Not a single word had been uttered between them. At least not audibly. The bond they shared made it so they never needed to speak again but still he longed for the sweetness of her voice. She had even sang him a song, just once. Her voice had been sweet as a songbird, soft and smooth enough to lull him into sleep.

Robb had came up with a ruse to keep Catelyn away from Sansa’s rooms, to ensure their privacy and Sansa was more than thankful for it. She had been able to lay in his embrace for hours upon hours, watching the sun set and the moon rise and the stars shine. _I don’t know how I will be able to survive it_ , he said.

 _Survive what?_ She replied inaudibly.

_Not seeing you each day._

She turned her head, looking up at him. “Who will you feed from?” she asked. “Jeyne Poole could-“

“I do not need to feed.” He said firmly, an edge to his voice present. “I can go months before…you will be back by then.”

“Yes.” Her smile soon faded. “It won’t be so long. But by the time I return I will be a woman betrothed.”

Jon’s face darkened. “Do not speak of such things. It pains me to think of such terrible things.”

So instead of speaking Sansa pulled him closer. She would miss the smell of him. She was not sure what it was, a scent she could not place but each time he was near she knew. _You’ve taken my blood_ , he had once told her. _Perhaps your sense of smell had increased_.

“Do you think we will still be able to speak?” she had asked. “When we no longer share blood what if…”

“Do not think of it, sweetling.” He whispered. “We will always be bonded.”

The moon turned three times before Jon’s voice faded. She cried for the whole night. What if something was wrong? What if something had happened to him. She had already lost so much she could not lose him too.

The city smelled so strongly that Sansa could smell it before she could see it. Robert Baratheon had sent guards to meet them at the gates and they were led into the city with a flurry of direwolf banners and a blare of trumpets. Even Arya found it quite ridiculous and her eye for the dramatics had always been vast.

“I hate it.” the youngest Stark girl had whispered. “I want to go home. I want to see Jon.”

“As do I, sweet girl.” Said their father. “We will be home soon.”

Robert Baratheon was as fat and wide as a boar, struggling to descend from the seat of the Iron Throne and Sansa had to pinch Arya’s hand as hard as she could to keep her from laughing audibly.

“May I present my daughters,” introduced the Lord of Winterfell. “Arya,” –Arya curtsied awkwardly- “and Sansa.” Sansa’s curtsy was practiced and delicate and the Queen smiled upon seeing her.

“Beautiful.” Said Cersei Baratheon. “Fair and pretty as their mother.”

“You are very kind, your grace.” Sansa replied with a faint blush.

The Lion Queen was as fair and golden as the sun, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders and tumbling down her back. Her smile was as lovely as the singers sang of but there was something Sansa could not place. It was days later before she realized what she had seen flash through the queen’s eyes. _Jealousy_.

Jon so often told Sansa of her great beauty but she had always assumed him to be blinded by love’s eye and exaggerating. But Lady Cersei had seen the tumble of soft, auburn curls and the pout of rosebud red lips and suddenly felt like she was no longer the most beautiful woman in the room.

And the wolf girl was tall as she, yet slimmer, her waist thin as a spindle and the swell of her breast soft and creamy, her skin showing only briefly through the dip in her gown when she moved to curtsy.

Flashing her gaze to her husband Cersei saw the King’s beady eyes widen at the sight and it made her sick to her stomach. Though judging from the horror upon the girl’s face she felt the same. _Perhaps she is not so naïve after all_ , Cersei thought. _Not so sheltered as to not recognize lust in a man’s eyes._

Retired to her chambers Sansa sat upon the cushioned window seat, looking out the stained glass and onto the city she spoke to Jon, careful to obscure her smiling face from Arya, who gazed quizzically at her back.

 _Father has been named hand of the King_ , Sansa thought. _He seems less than enthusiastic but has taken the position nonetheless. He speaks of our return to Winterfell soon._

Sansa could hear Jon’s voice clear as if he sat beside her, just out of view. _I count the days until I can see you again. Robb had pronounced he will go riding after you if you do not return within the fortnight._

At the time Sansa had laughed, not aware that within a fortnight she would be no closer to Winterfell than she would be to the freedom she once had loved and lost.

Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men had a funeral as befitting a King, grand and lovely and attended by the entirety of the city.

But Sansa had seen none of it.

“I will kill them all.” Arya cried, clutching her sister. The tower they were locked in had been stripped of all belongings and furniture, bare as a newly built stable. The chests of their possessions had been taken and their valuables sold or stolen by the servants. Needle, the little sword Jon had had crafted for Arya was lost, stolen by the stable boy and used to skin rabbits and cats for supper.

Arya had cried for three days when he had wrested it from her. She had not let it go without a fight, tackling him to the ground and beating his face bloody and bruised. It was only when one of the guards knocked her over the head with the butt of his sword did she let go. Sansa had carried her three miles back to the castle and up the seemingly endless stairs to their tower.

“Father will save us.” Sansa whispered, petting her sister’s hair. “He is Lord of Winterfell. He will come for us.”

Sansa had shielded Arya’s eyes with her pale fingers when Lord Eddard Stark had been dragged upon the platform before Baelor’s statue and thrown at the feet of the bastard King Joffrey Baratheon. The youngest Stark girl had screamed and cried and tried to wrestle herself from her sister’s hands but Sansa had not given up.

By the time Ser Ilyn Payne’s silver dipped sword had arced through the air and ended Eddard Stark’s misery, Sansa was just beginning hers. Arya had collapsed to the floor, having screamed so loud she had lost her voice. Her clothing was a puddle around her, her body thin and frail from the lack of proper food.

Sansa’s pale skin was bruised and battered from Arya’s fists when the girl beat upon her chest, forcing her away. “Get away from me!” she screamed. “He’s dead! He is dead. They killed him! They…”

She sagged in Sansa’s arms, quieting. It was only after she had fallen into a fitful slumber did Sansa allow herself to cry, tears streaming down her hot, red cheeks. _Jon_ , she whispered. _Please. If you can hear me. If you are there. Please come for us. Father...father is dead. They called him a traitor. They said he tried to kill the King’s son. They lied. Come for us please. Father is dead and we will not be long after_.

She had not heard his voice in a fortnight and feared it was gone forever. It had been three months since they had shared blood and each day that passed apart the bond grew weaker and weaker until one day the soft voices that had once occupied her head were gone, leaving only hollow, emptiness in their wake.

 _Please Jon_ , she whispered, one last time, cradling her sister’s weak body. _I cannot lose you too. Not you._

Another three days passed before Tyrion Lannister was able to slip a scrap of worn parchment beneath their door, both Sansa and Arya diving towards it in hopes of news.

Dark, scrawling handwriting wrote: **Robb Stark has raised an army in the North. He plans to storm King’s Landing in hopes of retribution for the death of your father. Burn this letter and tell no one what you have learned. Do not trust any one but I. I will return as soon as I am able.**

Their next visitor was Cersei Lannister, who took great pleasure in seeing the wolf girls half starved and sad. “Little dove,” she whispered, brushing a strand of Sansa’s hair from her face. “It is a great shame you could not be queen. I would still have you but…a traitor’s daughter cannot marry a King. It would be shameful.” The lion queen smiled, despite no jest being made. “You would have made a very good one.”

Sansa screamed when the door had closed and locked behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Sort of depressing, I'm sorry about that. I still hold out hope Ned will come back.


	4. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a plot is made and ribs are broken.

Part Three

Sansa slept each and every night she was locked in the tower knowing that she slept in her Lord father’s bed. It had been more than ten years since she had snuck into her parent’s bed after having a nightmare or just because she was cold and her mother was always warm and soft.

She fell asleep knowing that these walls contained the last things her father had seen. The last bed he had slept upon, the last polished brass knob he had twisted and opened. It was the last room he had existed in as a free man.

She could still picture the silver sword Joffrey’s executioner had swung, the blade forged in Valyrian fire and tipped in Valyrian steel, the only thing that could take the life from a vampire. It was the same thing that had killed King Robert though then it had been a cask of wine that had been soaked in Valyrian steel, burning the fat King from the inside out until he became so dizzy that he fell from his horse and was plowed into by the boar he planned to hunt.

The tower window was large and bright from the light of the moon that poured through the dark clouds in the sky. Thought it had been bolted shut, Sansa assumed it had been locked so that she could not throw herself from it and escape the Lannister’s so easily, she could have sat in it. She would give anything for a gust of fresh air instead of the old, stale air that polluted the tower room.

Each day the servants entered in the morning to present the Stark girls with trays of food and fresh towels and linens. It was almost as if they were not prisoners. Only the linens smelled stale and the food was the scraps of the kitchen: grisly meat and stale bread with wine bitter enough to make the hairs on the back of Sansa’s neck curl.

Occasionally they received visitors but mostly they received notes from the Lord Hand, Tyrion’s handwriting cramped and small and concealed upon scraps of used parchment or napkins or even once upon the underside of a loaf of crusty bread, which Sansa would have eaten had Arya not pointed it out, claiming it was a spider.

The handwriting was dark and ugly but it was familiar. **_R crushed Lan. army. R going to RRun._**

“Riverrun?” asked Arya after Sansa had read the parchment. “That means the Blackfish had joined Robb’s army.” She chattered excitedly. “Perhaps even Uncle Edemure.”

A few minutes later she spoke again. "Do you think he can win?" Arya asked. Her eyes as round and soft as their fathers once had been. They even sparkled the same way. Sansa’s heart wrenched. "Do you really think he can beat them?"

After she had exhausted the books that were left in the tower Sansa had spent the days listening at the door. The servants often chatted, mostly gossiping or speaking of the King’s new betrothed but every once in a while Sansa could catch a few scraps of information of consequence.

They said Robb rode into battle on the back of a black direwolf. They said he drank the blood of the defeated and absorbed their strength into his own body. They said he rode with Prince Rhaegar's son at his side. They said the man in black never smiled.

Sansa gave a weak smile. “Yes, sweet girl.” She whispered, stroking Arya’s dark hair. “I know he can.”

Her brother had always been a strong rider but his sword skill was far lesser than he had hoped and Jon had often teased him for it. But under Jon’s tutelage and the tutelage of the Northern Lords rumored to ride at his side she was sure Robb would thrive. He had yet to lose a battle and that thought made Sansa’s stomach flutter with excitement.

She was sitting near the window when the door burst open and four knights of the Kingsguard stormed in, pushing back the door with such force that a dent became embedded in the thin wall. “King Joffrey wishes for an audience.” Said one of the men. She was not sure which but there was no question in his voice.

Sansa walked through the great hall with her back straight and her chin held high. She would not let them see her suffer. She would not let them see her cry.

They whispered behind their hands about her, giggling or laughing in her face, commenting on the shabbiness of her gown or the hair she wore in the Northern fashion. Arya had said she looked like her mother and Sansa took pride in that now.

“Ah. My lady Sansa.” Said Joffrey from his seat upon the Iron Throne. He looked quite ridiculous, like a boy trying on his father’s armor. “I am so glad you could join us.”

“Of course, your grace.” She gave a thin curtsy.

Cersei Lannister sat beside her son, looking quite smug. She was dressed from head to toe in Lannister colors, and, as if the association was not subtle enough, when she turned to reach for another chalice of wine her back bore a golden lion, having been embroidered upon the fabric. “Your grace.” Sansa greeted, receiving a nod in response.

“Your brothers.” Joffrey spat. “Have destroyed my army. Three thousand men are dead at their hands.”

Sansa looked up at him, her green eyes glinting with pleasure. But it only seemed to anger him more. In a flash he raised a crossbow she had not seen and aimed it at her, the arrow pointed at her chest. Arya screamed and had to be restrained by Ser Sandor Clegane.

Sansa did not flinch. She would be strong. She must be. For Arya, for Jon, for her Lady Mother. Joffrey seemed displeased at her lack of reaction and sighed before lowering the crossbow. “He is a pretender.” He announced loudly enough to reach every each in the room. “Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.” He scoffed. “What a foolish rumor. You cannot give any truth to these rumors.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak but the Hound clapped a hand over her mouth, anticipating her reaction. “I will not strike you, my lady.” Said Joffrey after a moments pause. “A King should never strike a lady no matter how treasonous her family is. Ser Meryn!”

A man came forward and before Sansa even had a moment to react his huge mailed fist had come down upon her. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath. She felt a rush of cold air and the sleeves of her gown became loose, pooling around her wrists as the bodice of the gown fell away.

Another blow sent her facedown onto the marble, the cold stone singing her skin. But not nearly so badly as the punch that pierced her side. She heard the crack of bone and coughed, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth.

“What is going on here?” demanded a voice. The door had slammed open. Sansa’s head was reeling. She did not know who had spoken or who was lifting her into the air. Arya was screaming so loudly for a moment Sansa feared she had been struck too.

When she awoke the sun was bright in the sky and her side had been bandaged so tightly she could not move, the bandages tight as a corset. “Sansa!” Arya cried, falling to her knees at the side of the bed. Her face was red and swollen and tearstained and when she saw her sister open her eyes again her face morphed quickly into relief. “I thought….the maester said…”

“I’m okay.” The copper haired girl whispered. Her voice was hoarse from disuse.

Another voice came into focus. Tyrion Lannister smiled at her, brushing the hair from her face and offering her a chalice to drink from. “I know you feel ill but you must drink.” He soothed. “It will lessen the pain.”

She had been given milk of the poppy, she knew. In Winterfell she had become familiar with many herbs and remedies under the tutelage of Maester Luwin and she had once teased Jon that she would travel to the Citadel and forge a chain.

At the thought of Jon and Winterfell she could no longer hide her tears. They burst from her body sudden and wracking, the pain great as they shook her entire body. “Shh…” soothed Tyrion. “It will all be over soon.”

When she awoke again it was night and Arya was lying beside her in the bed, rousing her. But once Sansa began to stir she sat up instantly. “Sansa.” She whispered excitedly. “Lord Tyrion has a plan for us to flee the city. He said someone will come for us as soon as the moon is high.”

“What?” Sansa groaned. Her head was simultaneously heavy and light. She had not eaten and her stomach was rumbling loudly. For a moment, when she had fist awakened she thought she was home in Winterfell. In her own bed, with Jon at her side. The disappointment was crushing.

“Lord Baelish.” Said Arya. “He and Lord Tyrion plan to smuggle us from the city. Can you walk?”

“Yes I-“

There was a knock at the door, sharp and so short she was unsure she had heard it. Sansa could feel the dagger at her hip that Tyrion had given her, the blade sewn into the fabric just inside her hip at her stockings.

She held it carefully, remembering the places Jon had showed her. "Strike here" –the dark haired man had pointed to his upper thigh, "to stop a man. Strike here" -pointing to his stomach, "to kill a man slowly and strike here," he had turned and lifted his tunic, showing her a sliver of skin on the middle of his back, "to kill a man in seconds."

A red haired maiden appeared from the darkness. “Come along!” she ordered. Arya was instantly at her feet. Her fist held so tight to the dagger she was sure its gilded hilt was drawing blood. “Lord Baelish sent me.”

Sansa's eyes narrowed. Her mother had known Baelish as a child, this was true. She had spoken of him fondly once but over the recent years her kindness had turned to skepticism, her and the Lord of Winterfell often commenting on the mans ruthlessness and cunning.

“Come with me. And be quick about it. The guards will return soon!”

Sansa walked shakily, her steps small and uneven. The pain in her side was enough to make her vomit and she remembered Tyrion had told her that her ribs had been cracked by Ser Meryn’s fists.

They moved through the castle quickly and knowingly, following the red haired woman. Sansa had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The woman was dressed like a whore, her dress soft and pink but thin enough to show the outline of her body beneath.

“Where’s Tyrion?” Sansa heard Arya ask but the woman didn’t answer.

“Arya. We need to turn back. We need to-“

They were just to the kitchen door when there was a scream and the sound of iron grinding upon iron and several more screams erupted. Sansa’s head was pounding. It was chaos. Arya held her hand tightly, running now with Sansa hobbling after her.

She could see knights from all sides coming towards them. “Arya!” Sansa screamed over the discord. “Arya.”

She was crying now, grasping her hand tightly enough to bruise her. “No. I won’t leave you. I won’t-“

Sansa pushed her forward with all her strength until the youngest Stark girl was just through the open kitchen door. She grabbed a large frying pot from the kitchen and rammed it into the closest night, screaming with all her might: “Run!”


	5. Part Four

Part Four

For months each time Arya Stark looked at the crook of her elbow she could see her brother. She could almost feel him. The softness of his lips just beside the point of her elbow, the sharpness of his teeth piercing her skin, the rough pad of his tongue as he licked the last drop of blood away.

It was strange at first to see him in such a way. Her mother had always told her that feeding was a private, intimate thing. A dirty thing. But it never was with them. It was quiet and easy and there was never anyone to have to fight with over Robb’s attention. They could talk for hours about swords and fighting and the cuts and scrapes and scars that covered their bodies.

Robb had always paid special attention to Sansa and Arya had always envied it. They were close in age, closer than she and Sansa or she and Robb and with their soft russet hair they were almost twins. Like the Queen and her brother. Arya had always heard they were close as well, though not in the way Robb and Sansa were.

But ever since Robb had begun the feedings their bond had grown. They spent hours together each night and then it grew to spending hours each day and night together. They were thick as thieves, as their father said; he pitied the man they ever teamed up against.

But now as she looked down at the raised white scar, the twin circles that glowed silver in the light, she could only cry.

Arya’s shoulder ached from where one of the Kingsguard's knives had pierced her flesh and she could feel the blood trickle down her skin like rain drops. At first it had not hurt. She could only focus on the pounding of her feet against the stone and then the mud as she made it into the city. She could feel the mud squelching between her bare toes and the shouts that followed her down and over her shoulder she could see the lanterns bobbing up and down in the darkness as the knights fanned out in search of her.

Blood and the slash of the sword had left her gown worthless and it hung off at an awkward angle, leaving her back bare enough to let in the cold snap of wind that came at her.

Arya sobbed loudly enough to draw attention but no one dared stop the mad girl as she hobbled through the dirt streets, cradling her limp arm against her chest. She did not know which way to go, only walking to avoid the knights she could see slipping through the darkness. Only once had she been in the city and it had been at her father's side. But the thought only made her sob harder.

King's Landing was far darker than Winterfell for the northern city always bore softly glowing lanterns in every window or tower and hand-blown orbs inside which candles were nestled that hung from branches of trees. Only in the Godswood had it ever been as dark as in King’s Landing but there Arya had felt safe, strong even, with the Gods at her front and her family at her back.

But in the Capital she had neither Gods nor family for only the Seven were worshipped and the blood of her father still stained the city streets at the head of the castle. And Sansa...

When she turned to look over her shoulder she could see the Tower of the Hand where she had once been locked away. Sansa had always left a candle burning in the window. It was a Northern tradition to ward off night spirits. Their father had always done it and Old Nan as well. But now Sansa's window was dark as the rest of the city. 

Arya could remember flashes of things. Sansa's scream. The way she had lifted the pot and smashed it down upon Ser Osney's head. The blinding light coming through the door. The massive dragon bones that Arya wiggled through in the catacombs beneath the Red Keep. The smell of filth and decay among the streets. The pain...the pain...

"Watch it girl!" shouted a voice. Arya was thrown onto her side in the dirt, strangling a scream. The pain was like a bolt of lightning striking her body.

"Oi!" came another voice. There was the sound of steel clashing against steel as she struggled to her feet, fearing the Kingsguard had found her. She had hit her head against a broken cobblestone and felt the pain radiate through her body like the cord of an instrument being played. "Let go of her!"

A hand was offered but she shied away, shielding her face. "You needn’t be afraid, m'lady." said a cool voice. She was lifted into the air. Pressed against something warm. It was light, soft, golden light. She felt water. She remembered the hot springs in Winterfell where she had swam with Robb and Jon and Sansa.

“It’s all right, m’lady.” Said the voice. “Just trying to clean up the blood is all. I’m sorry if it hurts you. I’ve given you milk of the poppy. Some at least. I didn’t know how much to give a small thing like you.”

“My sister!” she cried. Her face was hot and red with tears and she felt herself having trouble breathing, laid carefully on her stomach as her back was being touched by unfamiliar hands.

“You can’t go to her now.” Said the voice. “You're hurt.”

“Who are you?” her voice was raspy and unfamiliar even to her ears.

“Gendry Waters, if it please m’lady.” He said.

The man moved the candle from the bedside table and as her eyes adjusted to the light he came into focus. He was tall and as broad shouldered as her brother and his hair was dark as Jon’s but apart from that the similarities stopped. His eyes were dark and bright and his brows thick and furrowed as he looked down over her.

“I found you on the street. I saw you at the King’s coronation tourney. Your sister is she…” Arya cried loudly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “It’s alright m’lady. She’ll be safe soon enough.”

“What?” Arya pushed herself up on her elbows. The pain in her head almost made her collapse again. “What do you mean?”

Gendry Waters looked over his shoulder to ensure the maester was gone. “King Jon.” He whispered. “He’s coming to the city soon. Didn’t they tell you-“

“King Jon?” she repeated. “Jon Snow.”

“Jon Targaryen, m’lady. If the rumors can be believed.”

“Joffrey.” She whispered. “He beat my sister because of Robb. Because he had an army-“

“He does. The Northern army already crushed Tywin’s army near Riverrun. They managed to get them from all sides, completely crushed them. Rumors have it Renly Baratheon will join his army to theirs and march on King’s Landing.”

“How do you know?” she demanded. It could be a trick. For all she knew this man was one of Joffrey’s wicked knights trying to lure her into relaxation before he struck.

“Letters.” He said, rustling around in a drawer. “From a friend in the Reach. He can be trusted, I promise it.”

“And how can I trust you?” she asked, frowning.

He gave her a hard look. “Arya Stark of Winterfell. Sister to Sansa Stark and Robb Stark. Cousin to Jon Targaryen, true King of Westeros.” She felt a jolt of nervousness run through her, her stomach tightening like a knot. He kneeled, to her surprise, and laid a dagger on the bed beside her open palm. “I will lay down my life to protect you. And if you don’t believe me you can take this dagger and plunge it into my heart whenever you see fit.”

She frowned at him. “My sister. I need-“

“I know.” He said. “Your mother wrote to Lord Baelish but it seems he was found out.”

“I don’t trust him.” she replied, easing herself back down onto the bed.

“Neither do I, m’lady.” He said. “We’ve already thought of a thousand different ways to get into the castle but none of them will work.”

“We?”

As if on queue the door was pushed open and two dark figures entered and one moved toward her, pushing back the hood of his cloak. “Jory!” Arya cried, trying to stand.

“Shh now, Arya.” He soothed, brushing back her hair as he embraced her lightly.

“I can’t believe you-“

“I serve your father.” Said Jory. “That bond does not end with death, I’m afraid. I promised I would keep you and your sister safe but on that I have failed. We will find Sansa. We must. I see you have met Gendry. He too served your father.” She raised her eyebrows. “He didn’t tell you?” he chuckled. “Dear Gendry here is Robert Baratheon’s bastard. Ned-“

“Lord Eddard protected me when the Queen wanted me dead.” Said Gendry. “Hid me here where nobody thought to look. I owe him my life. I owe it to him to help in any way I can.”

“As do I, my lady.” Arya looked up. A man stood in the doorway, struggling to remove his armor. _No_ , she thought. _Not a man_.

“I am Brienne of Tarth, if it please you, my lady.” She said, kneeling before the bed. Her armor was silver-gold and polished until it shone and when Arya looked closer she could see a stag had been etched into the silver plate over her chest. “I am a member of Renly Baratheon’s Rainbow Guard. _Was_.” She corrected immediately. “I serve your mother.” Said the knightly woman. “I serve you and your sister. And I swear by the Old Gods and the New I will find your sister and I will bring you both back to your mother.”


	6. Part Five

Part Five

Sansa lay unmoving in the center of her bed, her skin riddled with a map of bruises that were now gently shading to yellow with age. The cut on her bottom lip had not yet healed and she could still taste the metallic flavor of Ser Meryn’s iron clad fists. Her breathing was shallow and light, the pain of her broken ribs still plaguing her.

Cersei Lannister had long ago instructed the maester to bring her no more milk of the poppy so in her pain she lay, not even daring to cry. Three guards stood outside her door and another two on the ground below her window so even if she wanted to jump to her death she could not. She was not even free in death.

And that was where Margaery found her, her gown stained with sweat and wine that had spilled from her chalice when she did not lift her head to drink. “My poor dear!” the pretty dark haired girl said, half startled at the sight of her. “What has become of you, my friend.” She cooed, brushing the hair from Sansa’s face.

She tried to sit up. “Have you news?” she whispered, knowing the guards were listening at the door. “How have you come? How have you gotten passed the Kingsguard?”

“Men.” Margaery said. “As simple minded as children really. Easily distracted. News…” she trailed off, sitting on the bedside. “Yes. News I have. News you will not wish to hear.”

“Is Arya…” Sansa couldn’t even finish, her voice leaving off in a strangled sob. “Is she? Did they-“

“No, sweet girl.” Said Margaery. “Your sister is lost but she is safe and she will stay that way as long as she is lost. It is something else…”

Sansa could not take any more pain. After a while it all seemed to jumble together, physical and emotional, until she felt a weight on her chest so heavy she could not even breathe. She did not know if she could bear anything more.

Margaery Tyrell’s eyes were glassy and she took Sansa’s hand softly, kissing it. “Your mother, my sweet girl.” She said and Sansa watched her cheeks flush. “I am so sorry.”

Sansa tried to scream but she could not. She tried to breathe but she could not. She collapsed back onto the hard mattress and spilled into Margaery’s arms, hugging the girl she had once been friends with.

“How?” she sobbed. “Who?”

Margaery’s arms closed tighter, cradling Sansa’s head against her shoulder. “Lord Frey. Your mother and he had come to an agreement but when it was broken…he is known for his temper and his ability to hold a grudge.” She said no more, unwilling to hurt the girl any more than she already had.

Margaery looked over her shoulder and pulled Sansa closer, whispering so close to her ear that Sansa could smell the soft mint of her breath and the lavender of her perfume. “Listen to me, sweet girl. It will be over soon, this I promise. Your brother is coming for you and he has the full weight of the north at his back. You must not forget King Rhaegar was defeated by the northern army.” She lowered her voice even more. “Prince Jon is coming for you.”

And for the first time in months Sansa had hope.

Jon was still called bastard yet he bore the mark of king’s blood. The blood of dragons. The blood of Old Valyria. Sansa remembered the books they had shared between them before feedings, tales of dragons and stone men and white walkers. Jon had always been interested in them and now she knew why. Perhaps his blood had called to him, even though thousand year old parchments.

And now he was called Targaryen. Her Jon, the blood of the Mad King’s son. The thought made Sansa shiver and ache for him.

She remembered the nights they had spent in her chambers, reading books by candlelight or sharing jokes or gossips they had heard from the boisterous kitchen maids, giggling about the naughty things before they had even been old enough to understand. He had always had that glow about him when he had finished feeding, as though her blood had released something within him that left him stronger, faster, better. Even more so then when he drank from her mother.

Sansa had always loved those moments, feigning sleep so that Jon would lift her into his arms and lay her down upon her soft feather bed, lifting the furs and silks and tucking them around her body like the embrace she longed to be his. She could always feel his gaze upon her as she pretended to be weary from the feeding and only a few times had he brushed his fingers across her brow as he brushed the hair from her eyes or, just once, the time he had brushed his lips across the back of her hand.

Even now she could still feel it, the way his lips had felt, perhaps even softer than hers.  She wondered how he was getting his nourishment and felt a sick sort of anger and then guilt and shame at the image of him feeding from another. Had he forgotten her?

“What do you look for, sweet girl?” Cersei Lannister had once asked as she entered Sansa’s tower. For a moment she looked almost sweet, her beautiful mouth not torn down by a scowl and her golden hair brushed and swept into intricate braids at either side of her head. She moved to stand beside Sansa at the window, her green eyes following Sansa’s gaze. “What do you see?”

Sansa had looked at her then. The Queen Regent was as beautiful as woman came, golden and soft, her eyes green as sea glass and large as a doe’s. She was the desire of Westeros, perhaps even farther. But Sansa could feel her emptiness and Sansa was a Stark. She would endure. Sansa would weather her.

“Well, little dove?” Cersei demanded, her kind façade quickly crumbling to anger. “Do you seek Starks? There are no wolves among the lions here.”

And Sansa only smiled. She knew no wolves were among the lions. But it was no wolf that she seeked. Only dragons.

Tyrion was the only one to offer Sansa news of her bastard brother and the dragon queen that he was rumored to have contact with. _His aunt_ , Sansa knew, if the rumors could be believed.

King Joffrey had punished Sansa when news of the first Targaryen banner flew in Westeros, dragging her down the stairs and into the main hall of the Red Keep and ordering she be stripped.

She blushed with shame but did not give the satisfaction of the murderous King seeing her tears. Instead she took the shame in silence, feeling a knife slice through her corset and bodice easily as butter until it pooled at her feet. She was clad in nothing but her small clothes, her long copper hair covering the soft curve of her breasts.

She could see the hatred and envy in the Queen Regent’s eyes as she sat upon the raised dais. _Let them stare_ , Sansa thought. She was a maiden of seven and ten and even Cersei was no longer as beautiful as she. She had seen the gazes of the courtly women, whispering behind their fans and looking at her gawking.

 _Fools_ , thought Sansa. _They think I am some romantic creature, locked away in my tower. Most like they will write songs about me. I hate them. I envy them._

The house that had raised the dragon banner had been burned to the ground with the family of four inside but in response the banners had only grown, appearing on every corner of the Kingdom from Dorne to Riverrun.

Tyrion told her that the first royal house to support Jon was house Martell and Sansa vaguely remembered the dark haired Dornishman that had once come to King’s Landing, looking upon her kindly. He had offered her a soft, pink rose, the pity in his eyes clear. And now Prince Doran’s armies were on the side that would bring her to freedom and she was so happy at the prospect that she wished she had jumped into his brother’s arms when he had offered her the rose and kissed him.

Joffrey was dead the day Margaery and Loras fled the city. They disappeared when the moon was high in the sky and fled on a ship that stood in the harbor, awaiting their return. Half the castle fled with them. Megga and Margaery’s cousins and the knights Loras had always sparred with. The castle was hollow without them. Without their laughter and kindness and with the heaviness that was brought with the King’s death.

It was said that the hour the Tyrell ship arrived in Highgarden the golden stag that had once flown proudly from the city walls was thrown to the ground in favor of the crimson and black flag Sansa had grown so used to seeing.

It was as though a switch had been flipped. All at once the tide changed and even from her tower Sansa could feel it. A shift in the air. A staleness. She knew something was coming.

For the first time in decades the gates of King’s Landing were closed, forcing the people from the city to stay inside and those outside barred from coming in. Every person who even spoke the name Targaryen was hanged upon the steps of Baelor’s Sept but the fear of the people only gave way to something worse. Rage.

Kingsguard knights were murdered in the street, their helms left along the cobblestone steps bloody and covered with the torn cloaks that had been pulled from their backs.

It was unlike anything Sansa had ever seen. From her tower she could hear the screams. Screams of anger, of fear, of sadness, of anguish. Cersei screamed for the son she had lost and for the daughter she feared was taken hostage in Dorne. She screamed and raged around the castle, claiming she never should have trusted the “wicked little rose from Highgarden” or the “pillow-biter” she had once shared a womb with.

And Sansa waited.

She waited for Cersei’s rage to turn to madness for now it would not be too long. The Queen had already burned down half of the city with wildfire, the flames glowing so bright a green that Sansa had seen spots in her eyes for several days after having looked at it. It had been Cersei’s attempt to stop the advancing army but she had been successful only in destroying half the city she had sworn to protect. It was not long after that that she too was locked away by her own father, Lord Tywin Lannister arriving in the city just three days before the first attack.

The castle was prepared for a long siege, food and other rations saved and scrapped. Sansa had not eaten in six days when Tyrion was finally able to sneak her a loaf of fresh baked bread and three sausages from his breakfast plate.

Sansa ate ravenously, the pain in her stomach so great from her hunger that she nearly retched. “We cannot win this war.” Said Tyrion, just before he closed the door. “We cannot even last much longer.” But she already knew that.

Sansa was alone in this world, the only family she had left standing on a battlefield. She did not know if they were still alive. She did not know if Arya was alive. She had long ago given up speaking to the Gods as none of her prayers had been answered. She only waited. Her mother had always taught her patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the next chapter will be the last! Maybe two more but really no more than that.


	7. Part Six

Part Six

Sansa Stark saw the dragons in a whir of fire and smoke. She had been standing at the window, squinting, trying to see what the glowing shape was on the horizon. A star, she had thought at first. Perhaps another red comet, like when Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons had come into this world. It was so bright it almost mimicked the intensity of the sun and it only grew closer.

Only when it had reached the city edges and blown open the gate with a gust of bright orange flame did she realize. The city seemed to share a gasp and then a scream and then, for just a moment, silence.

From so high off the ground Sansa could see every detail of the great black beast. Nervous dread rose in her throat, the taste as sickening as bile. The dragon had scales so dark a red they were nearly black but they shone in the flickering firelight. What little firelight that remained after the massive gust of wind from the beast’s wing had extinguished nearly all light.

The destruction was absolute. Stone and rock and brick was crushed to ash, blowing away like leaves in the wind and the smoke was so thick she could scarcely see what lie below her. Over the water the smoke disintegrated before disappearing, revealing the smoldering city that lay beneath her. The ships in the harbor had set aflame and exploded into nothing but wood and cloth before sinking beneath the churning waves, the sailors greatly accepting the Stranger’s kiss.

Tywin Lannister launched vats of molten wildfire at the beasts but missed on almost every turn, the dragons far too fast to be caught by the flaming cannonballs. The fire burned endlessly, no matter how much water was poured on it or how much wood it ate. It only burned and burned and burned.

It took her a while to see there was more than one dragon. Three beasts swooped into the city all at once and in that moment she knew that there was no way she would leave the city alive.

Cannonballs struck the castle walls hard enough to knock Sansa off her feet, her hands catching her fall on the stone jarringly. She would die here. She would die a prisoner where she had lived a prisoner.

Her bruised ribs jarred painfully, the stone slicing her palm on her left hand. Blood spattered over the stone but before she could even react another cannonball had hit the side of the castle.

Sansa had not seen the army that Queen Daenerys brought forth but from the sounds of the citizens and the battle cries of the Kingsguard, closely followed by their death cries she knew there must be many. Or perhaps she did not have an army for her dragons were enough.

With sickening realization Sansa realized the tower had been hit. Large crags of grey stone fell from the roof, raining down upon her. She dove sideways to avoid a large slab of crenellation from the roof above, landing below the sill of the window.

A beast of fire whipped by her head and Sansa saw a flash of silver. The Silver Queen, she thought, her eyes widening. The Targaryen Queen was sitting atop the beast as one might sit upon a horse or an ass. _They are fire made flesh_ , thought Sansa. _And so is their mother._

She buried her face in her arms as another slab of stone fell, crushing her bed beneath its weight, heavy enough to jar her body.

The castle had emptied, the servants fled and the knights centered around Tommen and the others, their swords drawn and bows ready and it was easy to break the knob of the door with a slab of stone and run down the stairs.

The winding steps of the tower were hard to navigate as the castle shook hard. She was caught in a rain of fire and screamed loud enough to make her ears ring with the echo. She slipped, a pale foot slipping in a puddle of water that had sprung loose from the hot pipes that usually coursed beneath the castle to heat it come winter.

She fell once, twice, four times. Her body ached so badly she wanted to lay down and die, letting the fire take her into its embrace so she could once more see her mother and father again.

Her feet left bloody footprints in her wake, only making her slip more. She cradled her arm against her chest, trying to rip her gown free after it had been pinned down the corner of a broken pipe.

She screamed again when a slab of stone the size of a column broke loose from the side of the broken tower and she was powerless to stop it. The hem of her gown refused to come free no matter how hard she pulled. She screamed for Jon instinctively, throwing her arm up to cover her face.

The broken stone crag dug so deeply into her side that every breath was a labour and she could feel the wetness of blood pooling in the bowls of her collarbones. And the fire. It was so hot sweat instantly sprang to her skin. It danced above her from where the dragons had thrown the wildfire back at its owner and the green flames singed away the stone until nothing remained.

It was almost beautiful in a sad, terrifying way. Jon had always loved the color green, though he teased about black being his color. _It was always my color_ , she could still hear his voice as though he stood beside her.

 _I am dying_ , she thought weakly. Instead of moving quickly her brain was moving slow as though it was trapped in clotted cream and the images came so slowly it was almost more painful. _Let the Stranger take me_ , she thought. _Give me your kiss_. The pain was so deep that she wretched but her empty stomach let nothing free. _Let me be with my mother. Let me see my father. And Arya._

She could see her father grinning, his broad shoulders fitting difficulty through the door to her apartments, Longclaw slapping the side of the doorframe as he entered. And her mother, with her flame colored hair and her Tully blue eyes, smiling, her fingers threading through Sansa’s hair as she braided it. And Robb with his copper hair, just like hers, and his light eyes, just like hers. She would never see him again.

 _Just a bit longer_. She heard her mother’s voice. _You will be with us soon._

The fire inched closer, the smoke stinging her eyes sharply. The stone pressed harder into her fragile body. She could not breath suddenly as the smoke grew thick as northern fog. _This is it_ , she thought, dying. _Mother….father….Jon…_

Sansa could see him now, his dark curls bouncing and sprinkled with ash and soot, his face flushed yet pale, a sword in his hand. He wore black. She would have laughed if she had not been in so much pain. _It was always my color_ , she heard him say.

He kneeled before her, seeming almost real. _A fever dream_ , she thought weakly. _The Gods have granted me just one more vision of him._ His skin was pale, slate gray and paling even more by the second instead of the vibrant color it had always been after their feedings. The shadows beneath his eyes were dark as bruises and the side of his face was spattered with blood. “Sansa.” He whispered, offering a hand. She could feel his touch against her cheek, the rough pad of his thumb running across her bottom lip. _No_ , she thought. _It’s a dream. A cruel, cruel dream_.

“Sansa.” He looked pained, and collapsed beside her. His sword fell from his hand, the iron clattering against the stone loudly.

“You’re hurt.” She breathed. The stone column pushed the air from her lungs and the spokes of the pipe that had once held it in place broke her flesh, blood and water mixing and trailing down the broken staircase beneath her.

“As are you, my love.” Said Jon.

With strength far greater than any knight Sansa had ever seen Jon was on his feet, his fingers reaching around the broken column to lift it from her body. She screamed as he did so, the broken slab of stone having cut so deeply into her skin that when it was pulled free the pain only grew a hundred times worse.

She breathed heavily, her head lolling back and her body going slack in his arms. “The Gods are cruel.” She whispered. “This vision-“ her voice cracked. “Let me die. Let me die.”

“Sansa.” Jon cried, cradling her close to him. He sat back against the wall, her body tight in his shaking arms, her head once more leaning against his chest as she had dreamed of for so long. “The Gods are cruel for doing this to you. But I am here. I am no vision, this I promise. Sansa you must not go.”

“Jon.” She breathed so lightly he bent his head to hear. Her fingers were bloody and she used all her strength to graze his face, leaving a smear of blood across the apple of his cheek as he moved the rest of the way, dropping his cheek against the curve of her palm. His lips had lost the redness she had always craved and his eyes were hard and gray as iron.

She pulled the collar of his doublet aside and sucked in a breath. The point of an arrow was buried so deep Sansa had not seen it at first, the blood soaking through his surcoat and doublet and leaking onto her torn gown, leaving a bloody imprint in the shape of his tunic. “You’re hurt.” She whispered, her eyes lolling upwards.

“How can you think of me?” he whispered. His body was growing weaker by the second, the tight grip on her lessening until the both lay weakly on the cold stone floor.

She could feel the icy stone beneath her, the gown he had worn torn and dirtied with both of their blood.  “Jon, please.” She whispered. “Let me help you. One more time.”

He was too weak to object and with the last ounce of her strength Sansa wriggled her arm until it sprung free from her torn gown. Her skin was pale enough for him to see the bluish tinge of veins beneath her skin and they lay so close he could feel the blood coursing through them. It made him hungry, lustful even, desiring her blood more now then he ever had before.

His lips touched her neck, the metallic sting of blood instantly reaching his taste buds. His teeth turned instantly to fangs, piercing her soft flesh without hesitation. She gasped weakly and Jon considered pulling away but he could not. Her blood was fresh and sweet as honeyed wine, filling his mouth like juice from a peach.

Her blood was rich and soft and all at once they became one as they had each time Sansa’s blood had touched his lips.

Jon could see himself as children and realized with a start that he was seeing himself through Sansa’s eyes. It was before they had begun their feedings and he offered Sansa a pale blue rose, the same one Prince Rhaegar had presented to Lyanna Stark at the tournament. He never knew she had remembered that day. He never knew she had even paid him a second glance.

He was pulled through time again. Sansa stood over his body in the forest, thrusting her wrist out to him. She had looked fierce enough but as soon as he had bit through her flesh he could taste the fear in her blood. He had never been as cold as he had that day in the forest, huddled beside her, his wounded body sore enough to make him scream.

Years passed in seconds as he lived once more through Sansa’s memories. She was a young maiden, newly flowered, her hair as sweet a red as Dornish wine. The northern gown left her collar bare and the sight of her pale, sweet neck was almost torturous, lust rising in his belly like sickness. He fed from her, his lips brushing her skin as he bit and released, bit and released, the stream of blood steady.

He had looked upon her then: his lover and best friend, smiling at him, her pale fingers pushing back his dark hair and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Would you give anything for me?” she had whispered, giddy with happiness.

“Anything.” He had replied without pause.

Her lips pulled into a wide smile. “As I would for you.” A tear rolled down the slope of her cheek. “I am yours and you are mine.”

“From this day, until the end of my days.” He echoed, his voice muffled by her wrist against his lips. He had never loved anything so much as he loved her in that moment.

Jon’s strength returned with every swallow and he brushed aside Sansa’s flame colored hair, his fingers skating over her collarbone just lightly enough to make her shiver. Never had he touched her neck before, afraid to blemish such sweet, pure, unmarred skin. It had once been too much for him to bear.

The gash on his shoulder began to mend, the skin crawling together beneath the bloody tunic. When she had removed her sleeve the gown had loosened, the swell of her bosom rising over the tight bodice and whalebone corset she wore and as the point of his knife slipped through it she gasped, her lungs filling with air again.

But she was still weak. He knew what he had to do. Pulling away from her Sansa did not move, her eyes resting closed and her chest moving so shallowly that for a moment he feared he had lost her, starting with fear. “You have not taken too much, my Jon. I am only tired.” Sansa moaned, her voice muffled with insatiable fatigue.

He lifted her gingerly. “You must drink from me.” urged Jon. “Drink or you will die. My blood will heal you. Please, my love. I cannot lose you. Not again. Not forever.”

“I will be like you…” she whispered. He had never seen someone look as she did. Even the soldiers he had seen die while he fought as Jon’s side looked better than his love.

“Not yet.” Replied Jon, turning her cheek to face his neck, where the arrow wound had healed almost completely. “Only after repeated feedings will you turn. But do not think of that now. Think of Winterfell…think of snow and ice and Robb…think of Arya…think of…”

He had lifted the edge of his blade to his neck and dug it down before Sansa could object, beads of dark blood rising instantly to the surface. As he spoke Sansa could no longer hear him, her lips falling against his warm skin.

The taste of his blood was coppery and shocking at first and she had to resist pushing away. His beard was rough against her skin, her nose cold as the stone beneath him as it pressed against the underside of his jaw. She groaned. All at once the taste of the blood had changed, evolving into something far different. Far better.

She could feel heat pooling in her belly and elsewhere, a shiver wracking her spine and she was glad she was not standing else she would have fallen. The copper haired girl had never fed from him before and she wondered if it was as enjoyable as an experience as when he fed from her.

As if the hand of the Gods fell upon her she could feel herself growing stronger, the hunger that plagued her extinguishing from her belly and the cold that had encompassed her disappearing as if by magic.

She could hear the drops of water that rolled down the stone and plopped on the ground. She could hear the crackle of the fire that had all but gone out above their heads and the roar of the dragons, the sound completely unfamiliar and yet familiar at the same time _. It is familiar because to Jon it is familiar_ , she thought. _I can feel what he feels. I can hear what he hears._

She could see herself through Jon’s eyes, the bond they had always shared growing only stronger and she was almost forced back by its force. Her hair was red as burnished gold. Red as flame. Red as the city that was burning just over her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered as she looked up at him through bright blue eyes, her skin pale as unblemished cream, only marked by the blood that had spattered over her like paint.

She was lovely. She was admired. She was lusted for. Her mouth was stained with blood, her lips redder then they ever had been and as she looked up at Jon she was struck with the sense that it was all an uneasy dream. A guise of the gods to make her passing easier.

“I am here, Sansa.” Said Jon, pressing a kiss to her brow. “I am as real before you as you are before me.” he rested his forehead against hers for a moment, the warmth of her skin passing to her. “I feared I would never see you again.”

Her arms tightened around Jon’s neck as he rose suddenly to his feet, moving to descend the few stairs that remained with grace he had not initially possessed. He picked through the castle with familiarity, using Sansa’s memories of the halls and corridors to guide him.

“Only death could part us.” She whispered, peppering kisses over his bloody face.

Though Sansa’s strength had not appeared so quickly as Jon’s had but with every passing moment she felt stronger until soon she was able to walk again, stepping down from his arms and moving through the broken castle.

She was as regal as a Queen. Even torn and bleeding and bruised she was beautiful and at Jon’s side she feared for any man who might try to part them, the sword he had once discarded now primed and ready in his clenched fist.

They reached the main gate and with awe written on his face Jon smiled, his eyes on the sky. “The city had opened its gates to us.” He said. “This battle is won. This _war_ is won.” He corrected.

It was only when the Lannisters were thrown before their feet did she accept that she was not hallucinating. Daenerys Targaryen had stepped down from her dragon’s saddle with all the regality her reputation claimed she had. With a sweep of blue and silver she was standing before Sansa, smiling, and taking the girl’s hands.

“So you are the one who has so enchanted my nephew.” Said the Queen, her violet eyes meeting Sansa’s. “Now it is not hard to see why. I-“

“Khaleesi!” said a voice. A man with golden hair pushed through the crowd, leading a bound Cersei Lannister by the wrist. She had been gagged to quiet her screaming, shouting that she was a lioness and would not cringe for them but despite the strength of her words she was still thrown to Daenerys’ feet.

Tywin soon followed, the old lion bound and beaten within an inch of his life, dragged down from the battlefield by the foot of his boot.

To nearly everyone’s surprise the Targaryen Queen turned to Sansa, a grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. “What say you?” Daenerys asked Sansa, her silver-gold hair dancing with ash and flame. “Innocent or guilty?”

All eyes fell upon Sansa, standing barefoot and bloody in the midst of the burning city, beside the Queen and the prince and twin dragons that flew overhead.

Cersei watched her, glaring, not even having the decency to pretend she did not loathe the girl. For a moment Sansa considered granting mercy on the old lioness but as soon as her father’s face flashed before her eyes Cersei’s fate was sealed. But it was only until Daenerys’ sworn shield had swung his massive sword that the Lannister weight finally gone from her chest.

Sansa spoke on behalf of Tommen, who she claimed had never done a malicious thing in the space of his life. “He is nothing like his brother.” Sansa claimed. “By the Old Gods and the New I swear he is not like his family.” Daenerys accepted her word, offering the young boy mercy. It only helped that the poor scared boy had been found huddled underneath his bed, clutching two kittens to his chest and crying.

As the night drew to a close Sansa vowed nothing else could surprise her but she quickly revoked her vow when she caught a glimpse of her brother sitting upon the saddle of a great crimson dragon, the color as bright as his blood spattered hair. “Robb!” Sansa cried, flinging herself into his arms. “What-“

Robb grinned happily, hugging his sister and kissing her squarely on the brow. “Sansa, my sister.” He hugged her so tightly her bruised ribs threatened to break once more.

“How?” she asked, looking back and forth between her brother and the dragon.

Robb smile widened and he looked over her shoulder. “Oh!” he said, looking at Daenerys. “I see you’ve met my wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no intention of this chapter being this long! I am so sorry! But I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> P.S I just renumbered the chapters so please don't get confused by it I just changed "Part One" to "Prologue" but the story remains unchanged.


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

“Jon?” Sansa asked, her voice rising from the stillness of the room. The Prince of Westeros had long ago blown out the candle and the only light in the room came from the silver light streaming through the twin balcony doors. He was still on the opposite side of the bed, his bare chest rising and falling softly. “Jon?” she said again, her voice softer.

“Yes my love.” He muttered sleepily. His arm had snaked around her waist, pulling her tightly against him and his chest was warm and firm, lulling her into sleep.

Her lips twisted nervously. “If I ever asked it of you…would you kill me?”

“What?” Jon demanded, starting. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking at her in uncertainty, his dark brows furrowed. The muscles in his chest bulged in a way that made her cheeks stain pink.

“I spent months a prisoner in King’s Landing and I have no interest in ever returning to that state. If ever the city was to fall under siege again and we were sure we could not win…would you?”

He gave her a long, hard look before he finally answered. He took her hand in his and pressed a soft kiss to it and even in the darkness his lips found the twin scars that lay on the inside of her twist from where he had so long ago fed. “I would do anything to protect you, my love.” Said he, not dropping his eyes from her gaze. They seemed to glow in the darkness. “Anything.”

He pulled her back into his arms, cuddling up to her side and pulling the furs properly over them. “Would you slay a dragon for me?” the Princess teased.

He let out a deep laugh, the sound coming from deep within his chest. “I would use its blood to paint you a tapestry.” He jested in return, the smile on his face reappearing. “Though I’m sure it would do little to convey your beauty.”

She slapped his chest playfully. His muscular body had uncurled into relaxation, his head resting against her bare thigh and she bent to press a kiss to his brow. “But I think you would prefer your Northern furs.”

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Only with you under them.” said he, his callused fingers running up the length of her smooth thigh to skate over the swell of her bottom before moving slightly to the left, eliciting a soft moan from his lady wife.

“How you tease me.” she whispered in the darkness. His fingers were deft, but not so as his mouth and while he did not respond with words the jerk of his tongue was answer enough.

Her long fingers threaded through his dark hair, opening her eyes long enough to see the way the muscles of his back rippled as he leaned forward, looping her ankle over his hard shoulder. She could still see the scar from where the arrowhead had pierced his skin during the Battle of Lions and when she looked again she could see the thin skin from where his blade had broke his skin so she could feed from him.  

All thoughts were washed from her mind with a simple swipe of his tongue and she gasped, her hand closing into a fist in his hair. “Jon.” She whispered. He relished in the way his name sounded on her tongue. He had so long desired her, just as they were now, spread across their marriage bed with his head between her thighs and a smile across her face, her hair spread out like a red wave over their silk pillows. “Jon.” She moaned.

His hand reached up to thread his fingers through hers and, looking up at her, he could not help but smile, remembering the first time they had lain together as man and wife on the day of their wedding when Ser Jorah and Lord Jory Cassel had hoisted her onto their shoulders and carried her bawdily to her chambers, shedding her dress along the way until she was clad in nothing but her thin small clothes.

Arya had giggled like a wild woman when the bedding had first been announced in the midst of the feast in the garden, flitting excitedly between both Jon and Sansa in an attempt to tease and jest but also not see any parts of her sister or her cousin that she would not wish to see. And Sansa had been so thankful to have her sister at her side once more that she didn’t even shout at her when the youngest Stark girl had ripped Sansa’s beautiful silk stockings in her excitement.

Sansa could still remember the moment of pure bliss when she had first seen the wolf girl’s dark head bobbing up and down the street leading up the Red Keep. She had screamed and dropped giving Ser Barristan and awful fright and run to the girl, embracing her so deeply that she nearly broke Arya’s back with her love.

“I thought…” Sansa had trailed off, unable to say the words. It had been nearly three days since the battle and the city was in such a state of disarray that no matter how hard she searched Arya could not be found and nobody seemed to know of her. “I feared you were lost. I feared I would never-“

“-see you again.” Arya finished, warm tears leaving streaks on her face. “I missed you so much.” She cried, burying her face in her sister’s bosom and embracing the woman as tightly as the tired muscles in her arms would allow.

“Where were you?” Sansa asked, looking down at her face. A long cut ran down her cheek and, later, when examining her sister head to toe and swearing vengeance on any one who might have hurt her, saw the scar on her back Sansa nearly wished she could kill Ser Osney a second time. But being devoured by a dragon was punishment enough, she thought. Thought she wished Arya had been there to witness it.

When Jory Cassel had first come forth Sansa had nearly mistaken him for her father and began to cry, so thankful for his protection of her sister that for a moment she could not speak a word of gratitude.

As soon as the first bolt of fire had struck the city Ser Jory and Lady Brienne had swiftly hidden the terrified girl away in the crawl space beneath the floorboards of the cottage. It had been a tight fit, smelling of rotten milk and dead mice Arya was safe. “And for that, my friends. I will never be able to repay you. If it had not been for you she would surely have been found and taken back to the castle. I can’t even imagine what Joffrey would have done to her.” said Sansa, looking out at the three people that kneeled before her. “Rise Jory of Winterfell, rise Brienne of Tarth, rise Gendry of Storm’s End. You have my gratitude and anything in my power I can give to you I will.”

“There is only one thing I ask, my lady.” Said the woman called Brienne, kneeling once more.

“Name it and it is yours.” Said Sansa.

“Your forgiveness.” Said the knightly woman. She refused to meet Sansa’s eyes, her face twisted in pain. “I was tasked with returning you and your sister to your lady mother and in my attempt to do so I left your mother’s side and she-“

“Lady Brienne.” Said Sansa, lifting the woman’s chin until she met her eyes. “I am thankful every day that you were not at the Twins when my mother was killed.” The word was still painful for her to say and came out twisted and awkward in her mouth. “For if you had been my sister might not be standing before me.” She had hugged the woman tightly, her arms unable to close around Brienne’s plate armor. “If you wish to leave the city I will accept it but should you wish to stay…it would be my honor to have your shield at my back.”

Brienne looked for a moment like she would cry and only nodded, bowing once more and accepting her position with glassy eyes.

Jon kissed her deeply, his weight pressing down upon her as he lay above her, their bare legs entangled, their chests pressed together in an embrace. “Queen Daenerys has finally given me my leave but retains the right to call me back at any given time. We leave for Winterfell in a fortnight. What say you?” he asked.

Sansa smiled. She had not seen Winterfell since she had left in the company of her father and the excitement at the prospect of seeing her brothers was written across her face. “I am blissfully happy, my dear husband.”

“Blissfully?” he repeated, his lips curving around her neck. "You are blissfully happy?"

“Absolutely.” She whispered, looking into his dark eyes, dragging his mouth to hers. “And you, good ser?”

He moved to kiss her temple, sending a shiver down her spine, and stirring the hunger in her belly once more. “Each day I wake to find you at my side is a day I will spend happily. Even if I were to die tomorrow I would know I have lived the life I have dreamed of since I was a boy in Winterfell, watching you comb your hair.” he said, his finger curling around a strand of auburn hair that fell in her eyes.

“You will not die tomorrow.” said Sansa, cupping his cheek. His forehead fell to rest against hers, his eyes pressed closed in ecstasy, his warm breath a tickle on her skin. “I would challenge the Stranger in a battle of wits and chase him to the end of the world before I let him take you from me.”

Jon laughed, his beautiful lips curving into a smile. “I would do the same for you, my darling.” His large hand fell to rest upon the slight swell of her belly, his thumb caressing her soft skin. “Both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this work is COMPLETED! Please let me know what you thought, I would love to hear your feedback :)

**Author's Note:**

> Am I terribly cheesy? I love vampires and I thought it could be a really good fic with these two aka my children. I hope you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it! :)


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